


Busman's Honeymoon

by Purna



Category: Donald Strachey - Stevenson
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purna/pseuds/Purna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald and Timmy's Hawaiian vacation takes a turn for the dangerous. Titled with apologies to Dorothy Sayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busman's Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on the nick_n_nora LJ comm and uses movie canon.

"Do we drink these or plant 'em?" Donald couldn't manage more than a tired drawl, so the sarcasm was mild.

"That bartender can't shake a decent martini to save his life." Timmy's tone was scandalized. He fished out the straw hidden in the forest of flowers and took a sip. "But he does make a lovely Blushing Lady."

Donald snorted. "You're drinking a Blushing Lady?"

"_We're_ drinking Blushing Ladies," Timmy corrected, one eyebrow going up. Timmy's face always spoke volumes, and this time his expression was a combination of contentment and ironic humor. He caught Donald's eye with the faintest of winks.

"So gay," they said in unison, and they both cracked up. When the giggles had subsided, Donald dove in for a sip. He nearly took out an eye on a flower stem, but the alcohol went down smoothly.

Donald took another cautious sip and sprawled back limply in his wicker chair. His tired feet were propped up on a nearby hibiscus-filled planter. Before this trip, Donald hadn't known a hibiscus from a hole in the ground, but Hawaii was turning out to be a learning experience all around.

Take their current location, a table out on the _lanai_, Donald had learned. He didn't really care what it was called, as long as it was near the bar and outside, the better to enjoy the warm, soft breeze. He looked down at his bare arms and loud aloha shirt and smirked.

"I bet it's snowing in Albany right now." Donald couldn't help sounding smug. After all, the two plane tickets had been a gift from _his_ rich client, who had been very, very grateful after Donald managed to nose out the embezzler in his company.

It was a good thing that Senator Glassman had turned out to be a closet romantic. Her resistance to Timmy's sudden absence melted at the words "second honeymoon."

Timmy smiled at him indulgently. "Of course it's snowing in Albany; that's why we left. Can you believe we went swimming in a waterfall today? In February," he said happily, with one of those little head bobs that never failed to make Donald want to get horizontal, ASAP.

In spite of his diligent application of sunscreen, Timmy's nose and cheeks were pink, his winter pallor no match for the tropical sun. The skin of Donald's forehead felt tight and sore, which meant he was probably no better off himself.

Timmy seemed to follow his thoughts, reaching over to cup Donald's face. "You got too much sun," he said, tracing the cheekbone with a thumb. The banked heat in Timmy's eyes hinted at what else they'd done in the cool green pool at the base of the waterfall. The memory was too strong to resist, and Donald's breath caught in his chest as the images replayed.

_Swimming, groping under the guise of dunking each other, and eventually they end up with the pool to themselves. Timmy's body is warm against his, and Timmy's skin tastes strange, as green and tropical as the water. _

Timmy smiles wickedly, and he's doing his pushy thing, maneuvering Donald against a rock. Timmy's hands are sure and confident under the surface of the water. They open the fastening of Donald's shorts, and then slide around to cup his ass.

"Up." Timmy signals the movement with his grip, trying to lift Donald bodily.

Donald hesitates. "Timmy, anyone could wander--"

"Up." Timmy's whisper has the edge of a growl this time. Donald can never resist when Timmy's like this, and he gives in, sliding up out of the water to sit on the rock.

Timmy leans over and yes_ takes Donald into his mouth. Then it's just the sound of falling water filling his ears over the familiar heat and suction. The brush of teeth makes him moan, the pleasure building until he comes undone, shuddering into Timmy's mouth._

A shiver broke Donald's daze, reminding him of his aching body. Timmy had pulled his hand away to cover a yawn, his shoulders slumping.

Donald laughed a little ruefully and wondered if they'd have the energy for anything more than sleep once they were in bed. It was kind of sad how wiped he felt. He wondered if it meant he was getting old, that an easy hike up to a waterfall and some nonathletic swimming and sex could kick him in the ass like this.

The alcohol was making itself felt, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Donald was about to suggest they head upstairs, where the huge bed was calling his name, when raised voices from the bar interrupted.

A beefy guy was shouting at the bartender, who didn't seem to be putting up much of a fight, backing away with his hands raised defensively.

"Get your head out of your ass," the beefy guy shouted over his shoulder as he stormed off.

Timmy was pushing his chair back, and Donald sighed. "It's none of our business, Timmy," he warned without much hope.

"Hmm, yes," Timmy said. It was the absent tone that meant he might pretend to entertain suggestions, but that his mind was already made up. "But Michael looks really upset."

"'Michael'?" Donald asked, but Timmy ignored him. So far on this trip, Timmy had struck up conversations with the maid who cleaned their room, the bellboy, a couple from Canada, who were even more pasty white than Donald and Timmy, and apparently a bartender named Michael as well. Trust Timmy to network even while on vacation.

Donald rolled his eyes and watched his partner wander over to the bar, where he was soon in deep conversation with the bartender. Wistful thoughts of their bed upstairs with its soft sheets--_Egyptian cotton_, Timmy had said happily--faded. Hunching over his Blushing Lady, Donald settled in grumpily to watch Saint Timothy do his thing.

Crankiness and a fruity vodka drink only lasted so long, and Donald eventually found himself trailing after his partner. He nestled in right next to Timmy, draping an arm over Timmy's shoulders possessively. The territorial behavior flew right by Timmy; he just leaned into the embrace, turning toward Donald.

"Donald, good, you should hear this." Timmy's expression was earnest, his eyes grave.

"I'm Michael Campbell, Mr. Strachey." Michael the bartender was a young black guy with attractive, even features, tall and lean.

"Call me Donald. 'Mr. Strachey' makes me think I'm in trouble with the law or something." Michael's handshake was damp and cold from scooping ice.

"Donald, got it," Michael said. Timmy was right about him looking distraught. Michael was frowning and red-eyed and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Timmy met Donald's questioning look with a pointed glance back at Michael.

Donald stifled a sigh and nodded at the thick textbook of physiology that lay open behind the bar near the register. "Pre-med?"

Michael looked startled and then nodded, reaching over to smooth the pages. "Your boyfriend _did_ say you were a detective," he said, glancing over at Timmy for confirmation. "That's good."

"Private investigator," Timmy corrected primly. A hint of a smile flickered across his face as he glanced at Donald.

Donald suppressed a laugh, clearing his throat. "And why is it good that I'm a detective, Michael?"

Michael looked up at him, his breath going ragged. His voice was shaking as he said, "I think a friend of mine was murdered."

*

The photo Michael had produced from his wallet pictured him with his arm draped over the shoulders of a wiry blond guy, tanned and clowning at the camera. Billy Eddison was compact, shorter than Michael by at least half a foot, with a swimmer's shoulders. He had freckles under his tan, and hair as unruly as a haystack. A little too Midwestern farm boy, fresh-faced and young for Donald's taste, but Billy had been a good-looking kid nonetheless.

Donald handed the photo to Timmy. "He looks like a nice guy," he said to Michael, who nodded.

"Let me see if I got everything," Donald said, scratching at his chin. "Billy had told you that he had a new boyfriend, but he didn't seem too happy about it. He had been acting weird, tense and jumpy, and wouldn't tell you why." He was ticking points off on his fingers as he rehashed Michael's story.

"That's right," Michael said.

"You saw him leave work more than once with a high roller in a Lamborghini. And last night, you overheard him on the phone, having a heated argument with someone."

Michael took a breath to interrupt, but Donald held up his hand, adding, "Someone you think was this high roller boyfriend, yes, I know. Billy left with the guy after work yesterday and was last seen at a party on a yacht. Then he washes up on the beach this morning, and the local PD is talking accidental drowning."

"Impossible," Michael said firmly. "Billy was a hardcore athlete, the strongest swimmer I know. He did triathlons, even an ironman once. He liked to show off the tattoo he'd gotten to celebrate his finish."

"Maybe he partied too hard, slowed him down. Billy ever use drugs?" Donald asked, ignoring the pained look that Timmy sent his way, _subtle, Donald._

"Billy didn't even drink," Michael shot back. "He was a damn bartender, and he barely touched the stuff. Said he saw too much of it in the army."

Timmy's head came up. "Billy had been in the army?" Timmy's eyes darted over to meet Donald's for a second, his expression thoughtful.

Michael nodded. "I asked him once about joining up, you know, get Uncle Sam to pay for med school. He asked if I wanted to get killed in Iraq before I ever got to be a doctor."

"You and Billy were close," Timmy said.

"Close enough," Michael said cautiously.

Clients always tried to skate around the truth. Not for long, though, not around Donald. He grunted, shooting the man a hard look. "Come on, Michael," he said derisively. "You've got his picture in your wallet."

Michael swallowed. "We used to...be more, but now we're just friends. _Were_ just friends," he added, his eyes squeezing shut.

"I'm so sorry," Timmy said to Michael, glaring at Donald.

Donald shrugged helplessly. "It's tough," he finally said to Michael. "It's really tough. I know."

Timmy softened; he gave Donald's shoulder a quick squeeze.

Donald cleared his throat. "This high roller boyfriend. You know his name?"

"Sorry." Michael grimaced. "Billy never said. He was really secretive about it. I should have tried harder to get it out of him. That asshole killed Billy--"

"We don't know anyone killed him, Michael," Timmy said in a quiet voice. Somehow even with a whisper, Timmy could make himself heard. Donald figured he'd learned the skill after a lifetime of dealing with politicians, cutting through all the hot air and bluster. "The police could be right."

Michael ducked his head, sucking in a rough breath. "It doesn't make any sense to me, Billy going like that. You can find out why, can't you? Figure out how someone I--" There was a heartbeat's pause and then Michael continued, "I cared about washed up on the beach this morning?" He looked up, his face set. "I don't have much money," he said hesitantly.

Donald cut him off. "Don't worry about that, Michael. You can comp us some drinks or something. Besides, I can't promise you that I'll get very far; I'm kind of out of my element here. But I swear I'll give it my best."

"He's being modest," Timmy said, poking Donald in the side. "He's the best out there. If Billy was murdered, Donald will find out who did it."

*

Donald was out as soon as his head hit the pillow, but he woke bright and early, in a sea of sheets and pillows. The bed dwarfed the one they had at home, but Timmy was still sleeping right beside him, one arm draped over Donald's midsection. Timmy always looked a little vulnerable without his glasses, his features relaxed in sleep.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, highlighting the scar next to Timmy's right eye. A fall out of a tree at summer camp, Timmy had said, trying to impress his first crush. Donald reached out to touch it and then traced a line down Timmy's cheek to his mouth.

Timmy stirred, his lips curving into a smile. "Good morning," he said, and opened his eyes.

"Morning." Donald leaned in for a kiss. Timmy was fastidious about some things, but he'd never minded morning breath, which was convenient, because lazy morning sex was one of Donald's favorite things about being married.

Timmy let out an unhappy sound when Donald broke the kiss. The sound changed to one of interest when Donald's mouth returned, to Timmy's navel this time and then moved down.

Timmy's cock was already interested, tenting his boxers. When Donald eased the elastic waistband down to free it, it hardened even more.

He licked a broad stripe up the shaft of Timmy's cock, and Timmy sucked in a harsh, shaky breath. "Wait," Timmy said. "Help me out of these." He was shoving at the waistband of his boxers.

Donald gave Timmy's cock a little goodbye lick and then pulled away long enough to tug Timmy's boxers off. "Better?"

"Much. Please continue," Timmy said breathlessly. His words were polite but his hips moved restlessly.

Donald smiled at the response and then obediently slid his mouth over the head. He took Timmy in deep, and then pulled off to lick again.

"Donald," Timmy said. "Please."

Donald could never resist a desperate Timmy. Pinning Timmy's hips with his elbows, he slid his mouth back over Timmy's cock and settled in for a slow, even rhythm, up and down. Timmy's fingers clenched painfully in his hair, and he pushed himself deeper into Donald's mouth. Timmy might be diffident and a little awkward out of bed, but in the sack he knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.

Donald liked it that way, liked how Timmy let himself go when he was with Donald. Timmy was moaning, his breathing gone uneven and harsh.

"Like that, Donald. Just...like that." Timmy's voice went rough when he was about to come, almost feral, proof of still waters running deep. It was always a visceral thrill, when Donald drove his buttoned-down partner over the edge like this.

Timmy convulsed, bowing up beneath Donald. He came, and Donald swallowed it down, pulling a long, wordless cry out of Timmy. It was loud and would have sounded exactly like pain, except that Donald knew better.

They shared the shower, where Donald pinned Timmy to the tile, kissing him silly. They soaped each other up, and let the spray rinse them clean. Timmy cupped Donald's ass with his hands, massaging deeply into the muscle, and Donald groaned.

Timmy's fingers slid into the crack of Donald's ass. One finger slid gently inside, and then the water poured down over them as Timmy jerked him off.

Donald's knees buckled when he came, and he would have fallen except for Timmy's arm slung around his waist. Donald closed his eyes as they kissed again, without heat, easy and comfortable.

Timmy was sitting at the laptop wrapped in one of the hotel robes when Donald came out of the bathroom. He wandered over to look, but Timmy waved him off. "I'm searching the net. Call down for breakfast."

"Yes, dear," Donald said, laughing a little as he hunted down the room service menu.

"Found anything good?" he prodded as he was getting dressed, but Timmy ignored him. He was still tapping away when the tray carrying the breakfast order was wheeled into their room. Donald was signing the bill when Timmy let out a triumphant sound.

"Ha, here's our high roller, Donald. I thought I might find him here. George Osborne." Timmy turned the laptop so that Donald could see the screen.

It was the society page of the local paper, covering a benefit for the Makiki Art Museum. Donald squinted at the low-res picture. "That's Billy," he said.

Timmy made a smug little hum of agreement.

Billy's open farm boy face looked odd over the sleek tux he was wearing. He was arm-in-arm with a fit-looking older guy, in his forties or well-maintained fifties. The photo showed him staring over at Billy, looking completely besotted.

"'Platinum-level contributor George Osborne with escort,'" Timmy read the caption.

"George Osborne. Now we've got a name. Timmy, you're a genius," Donald said, leaning over to kiss the top of Timmy's head. "After breakfast, I'm going to check out Billy's apartment. Michael gave me the key." He nodded at the computer. "You mind doing a little more research on our Mr. Osborne?"

"Don't get arrested," Timmy said, narrowing his eyes at Donald.

"I promise." Donald reached for the food cart, snagging the grapes off the fruit tray. He plucked one off the bunch, offering it to Timmy. "Here, have a grape."

Timmy popped the grape into his mouth, chewing around a smirk. He slid his glasses back up his nose and grinned at Donald. "I think I've had this fantasy before, Donald. Tropical setting, hot guy feeding me grapes. He's usually naked, but you'll do."

"Glad I could help," Donald said dryly. He tapped the laptop screen. "Osborne must be rolling in dough."

"And he looks smitten." Timmy's smile faded as he stared at the picture. "Perhaps even in love."

"Love can make you crazy," Donald said quietly. "It can make you kill."

*

Billy's apartment turned out to be a second-floor studio in a complex on Kapiolani Boulevard. Michael's key worked perfectly, and there wasn't even any police tape to duck, just a sign taped to the door with an HPD phone number to contact.

The space was a little claustrophobic and had a depressing resemblance to a dorm room. Basically a single room with a kitchenette in the corner, the apartment was cluttered but clean. A pair of expensive-looking bicycles took up the floor space not occupied by a futon bed and a nightstand. The single window had a stunning view of the parking lot and an adjacent building.

A shower stall, toilet, and sink jostled for space in the tiny bathroom. A search of the medicine cabinet revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The toilet tank contained only water, just as Donald had expected.

The kitchenette was pretty bare as well. A single shelf provided storage. On it sat a few cans of soup and a jar of peanut butter next to a stack of shiny plastic-wrapped nutrition bars. An entire alphabet's worth of vitamins and a giant plastic jug labeled as some kind of energy drink took up half the limited counter space.

Donald wrinkled his nose. Michael had talked about Billy's athletic training, but Donald hadn't realized that included eating like an astronaut on the space station. He popped the top off the plastic jug and sniffed the powder inside with a grimace.

The fridge held condiment jars and a leftover pizza, and Donald felt like he was back in familiar territory. Add some beers and it could've been his own fridge before he met Timmy.

It wasn't until Donald started rooting through the paperwork stacked on the dinette that he hit pay dirt. Shoved in between Billy's overdue electric bill and a credit card offer was an envelope bearing a familiar insignia, and Donald got that tingle in his gut that meant he was on to something.

The letter inside the envelope was addressed to Reserve Specialist William David Eddison, and it was notification that his unit was being mobilized.

Donald pursed his lip, blowing out air. "You were headed to Iraq, my friend," he said quietly, tapping the letter against his palm. "Well, this complicates things."

*

"Mr. Strachey, I had to identify the body." Michael was bent over the ice bin, but he'd straightened up at Donald's question. "Of course it really was Billy. What kind of question is that?"

Donald pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not as simple as you might think, actually," he said with a sigh. The Rutka case had left him second-guessing himself for months afterward, and here its influence popped up again, like the bad guy in a horror flick.

"Did Billy tell anyone that he was going to be leaving for Iraq?"

Michael's ice scoop clattered to the floor. "What? No. Are you sure? I thought he was out of the army."

Donald slid the letter across the bar. "He was still in the reserve. His unit was called up for active duty."

Unfolding the letter, Michael started to scan its contents. "Oh, my god. I had no idea."

Donald took a deep breath, not looking forward to the reaction to his next line of questioning. "Michael, how stable was Billy? Emotionally, I mean?"

"What do you mean?" Michael was frowning.

"Would he have ever considered...hurting himself? If he was desperate enough?"

Michael glared at him. "Billy did not commit suicide, if that's what you're thinking. He was damn cocky, and he had a hell of a temper, but he didn't let things stew. The thought wouldn't occur to him. He wasn't the type."

"Anyone can be the type, if he's pushed hard enough." Donald couldn't help the edge that crept into his voice, and he wished he'd thought to have Timmy here for this.

Michael slammed the cooler door shut, his glare deepening. "Not Billy. It wasn't suicide. And why aren't you out looking for that high roller of his? When someone's murdered, don't the cops always look to the people closest to the victim?"

_That would include you, too, Michael._ The thought was fleeting and for once Donald's mouth didn't outrace his brain. He bit back the words.

The ache in Donald's hands brought home the fact that he had a death grip on the edge of the bar. He forced himself to step back, consciously shaking out the knots in his neck and shoulders.

He caught Michael's eyes. "You're right." He deliberately softened his tone. "And we're pursuing that angle. In fact, we think we've already identified him."

Michael's expression went taut, his mouth opening. Donald held up a hand. "It's premature to say more right now. I promise you, I'm looking into him. But we have to consider all the possibilities."

There was a long stretch of silence, and then Michael carefully slid the letter back towards Donald. "He was my best friend," he said earnestly. "I didn't know about that letter, though, so maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought. But I really can't see him killing himself over this. Mad as hell is much more likely."

Donald nodded. "Fair enough."

*

"There it is." Timmy pointed through the windshield of their rental car. "South Shore Yacht Club. Look, turn here."

"It must be very high brow, if Osborne has a yacht here," Donald said, as he navigated the parking lot. "What'd you do, call every marina in town?"

Timmy shrugged. "Someone had to do it. The Honolulu police weren't about to discuss the case with me, and I wanted to find out more about that yacht party where Billy was last seen."

"Good thinking," Donald agreed.

Timmy continued. "And while the police tend to snub me, marina managers are more than happy to talk to Timothy J. Callahan, senator's son." Timmy's voice slid into the privileged, plummy tone that he normally avoided like the plague. It only crept into his voice when he was tired or had been on the phone with his mother.

"Damn it." Donald laid on the horn as an expensive German convertible nearly backed into them. A lifted middle finger was the reply, and Donald raised an eyebrow at Timmy.

"I guess it's not that high brow," he said wryly.

"On the contrary. Money and power mean you can get away with lots of bad behavior." Timmy sounded resigned. "I saw enough of that growing up to last a lifetime."

"Could someone get away with murder?" Donald mused as he pulled into a spot.

"We'll find out, won't we?" Timmy got out of the car and stretched.

Donald locked up the car and joined him. He slid his sunglasses on, chuckling. "Confident, are we, Timmy?"

"In you, always, sweetheart."

They made their way to the club building. Donald gestured toward the boat slips. "I'm going to look around. You go talk to that marina manager. Use your rich boy voice."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Timmy drawled. Sobering for a moment, he added, "Be careful, Donald."

"You, too."

They split up. It took some wandering around and a few well-placed questions, but he finally hunted down the pier where Osborne's yacht was docked. The pier was gated, but Donald waited around until he saw a painfully thin blonde woman approach the gate.

He rode her coattails, catching the gate behind her, and tried out his best flirty smile when she glanced his way. She laughed a little, turning her back to him.

Osborne's slip was a fair walk from the gate, to make it easier to maneuver the boat out of the harbor, Donald supposed. The _Amelia_ was far from the biggest yacht in the marina, but she was sleek and looked fast for her size.

And Donald was in luck. Someone was aboard, bent over one of the mooring lines. Donald moved closer. "Mr. Osborne? Mr. Osborne, can I ask you a few questions?"

A man tall and broad enough to block out the sun was suddenly in Donald's path. Donald craned his neck up. Way, way up.

The guy had a hard, pale face, his hair cut short enough to satisfy even Donald's old drill sergeant.

Donald looked the guy up and down, his eyes lingering on the guy's torso. Not only was it a fascinating tour of over-developed musculature, but he was also on the lookout for the telltale bulge of a concealed weapon. "They grow 'em big where you're from, don't they? Excuse me."

The man stepped into Donald's path again. "Mr. Osborne isn't accepting visitors today."

"Maybe Mr. Osborne can tell me that himself," Donald said. He raised his voice and tried to catch the eye of the man on board the yacht. "Mr. Osborne, I'm a friend of Billy Eddison."

There was no response, and Donald saw his chance when the man mountain glanced toward Osborne. He feinted to one side and then tried to dart past. Speed was often the answer with big guys, since all that mass usually meant sacrificing agility. Not this time, Donald thought, bouncing off the guy's hard chest.

"Let me by," he said, starting to get pissed.

"I don't think so."

"It was this yacht where Billy was last seen alive," Donald yelled in Osborne's direction. It was a guess, but the sudden tension in the bodyguard's stance revealed its accuracy.

"Back off," the man mountain rumbled. He was moving forward, shouldering his way into Donald's space.

"What are you trying to hide?" Donald said in an even louder voice, as he was forced to take an off-balanced step backwards. They were starting to attract attention, people turning to stare.

He wasn't sure how it happened or who started it, but suddenly the jostling turned into a scuffle. Donald was strong and fast, but this was David versus Goliath, only David didn't have his handy weapon.

Donald got in one good punch before a fist to his face made him see stars. An ankle sweep was the follow up, knocking his leg right out from under him. Then he was falling, and before he could stop himself, he'd rolled right off the dock and into the drink.

He clipped his head against something on the way down and there was a frightening moment underwater when he couldn't figure out which way was up. He flailed around for endless seconds before he managed to break the surface.

It took him forever to fight his way up onto the dock. By the time he'd clambered back to his feet, soaking wet and still coughing, the man mountain was gone, and Donald had only a distant view of the _Amelia_'s stern as she quickly pulled away.

"That's just great," he said, spitting out the diesel taste of the water.

"You're bleeding." It was the anorexic blonde from the gate. She was staring at Donald's forehead, looking a little green. It was then that he felt the warm trickle down his temple, and his fingers came away red when he touched his forehead.

Timmy was going to kill him. "Shit."

"Here." She was holding out her scarf.

"I'll ruin it," Donald said in half-hearted protest.

She insisted, and he pressed the jauntily polka-dotted fabric to his forehead. At least he could contain the amount of gore that dripped down his face and onto his shirt. Timmy would still have a heart attack, but maybe only a small one.

"Thanks," he said, and turned to make his slow way up the dock. His shaky legs wouldn't let him go faster than a sort of unsteady amble.

Timmy was waiting for him back at the car, looking put out. "You need to turn your phone on. I just tried to call--Donald!" Timmy had gotten a good look at him.

"I took it for a little swim around the harbor," Donald said as he pulled out his cell. The screen stayed dead when he flipped it open. "I think I killed it."

"I'm just glad _you_ weren't killed," Timmy said, sounding worried and angry at the same time. "Why is it that every time I tell you to be careful, you end up bleeding?"

"What can I say, I'm a slow learner." Donald jerked his head away from Timmy's hand, which was reaching for the scarf. "No, don't. It might start bleeding again."

"It still _is_ bleeding. And I don't think polka-dots are the look for you," Timmy said, but he stopped trying to touch it. "I hope you split your head open for something useful."

Donald fumbled for the keys. He was feeling even worse now, queasy and dizzy, and so he didn't protest when Timmy held his hand out for them.

"Home, James," he said, as he slid gingerly into his seat. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest. "And it wasn't a total waste. Guess who owned the yacht that Billy disappeared from?"

Timmy let out a low whistle. "Osborne? Curiouser and curiouser."

Donald opened one eye cautiously, looking over at Timmy. "Anything interesting on your end?"

"Yes, but let's get you patched up first. I hate it when you get hurt, Donald. Especially since it's a case I made you take."

"You didn't make me take it, Timmy." Donald sighed. "It was the right thing to do. I count on you to point stuff like that out to me. And you were right this time. Remember the picture? 'George Osborne with _escort_.' They didn't even bother to get Billy's name, because he wasn't important."

"Well, he's important to Michael," Timmy said.

"Exactly. And he's important to you and me," Donald said, which earned him a happy look from Timmy.

"You know, sometimes I'm very glad I married you, Donald."

"Only sometimes?"

Timmy chuckled. "Don't bleed on the seat."

*

"I don't think it needs stitches," Timmy said, cleaning up Donald's cut with an alcohol-soaked pad.

They were in their hotel room. Timmy's faith in his ability to get into trouble even on vacation meant that he'd packed a first-aid kit that was almost as complete as the one they had at home. "Your hair should hide it if it scars."

"That's good. Wouldn't want to spoil my natural beauty."

Timmy leaned down for a quick kiss. "Absolutely not." He taped a gauze pad over the cut, and finished off by smoothing Donald's still-damp hair back from his forehead.

Donald had downed a couple of advil and rinsed off the harbor water in a cool shower, but his head was still throbbing, hot and queasy and in time to his heartbeat. Leaning into Timmy's chest, he let out a sound.

"What? Oh, here." Timmy shoved the first aid supplies to one side, and eased them around on the bed so that Donald could lie with his head in Timmy's lap. "How's the head?" Timmy rubbed soothing circles over Donald's chest.

"Hmm," Donald said appreciatively. "Better now. So are you going to tell me what you found out at the marina?"

"Without any blood loss on my part, might I add," Timmy said, poking Donald's sternum.

"Okay, okay, I got it. I'm sorry." Donald laughed and grabbed Timmy's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Now will you just tell me?"

"Well, the yacht club is holding a big gala Friday night." Timmy stopped, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

Donald narrowed his eyes up at Timmy. "Don't tease. And?"

"Osborne's the guest of honor. He's being named to the board, so he's sure to show up. And I," Timmy said, dropping into his rich boy voice, "managed to wrangle us an invitation."

*

"Have I ever told you how good you look in a tux?" Timmy said as they made their way from the parking lot to the yacht club building.

"Only every time you get me into one of these monkey suits," Donald said with a snort.

"I prefer the 'getting you out' part, myself." Timmy's version of lascivious was so goofy even he couldn't keep a straight face.

They joined the crowd of perfectly-coiffured women and men in eveningwear strolling into the yacht club. The gala was being held in an expansive room on the second floor of the club. The outer walls were sheer glass, letting in a stunning view of the harbor and lights reflecting off the water.

Glass doors leading out to a balcony were open to catch the ocean breeze. More of the ubiquitous hibiscus and some delicate purple flowers Donald thought might be orchids were decorating the tables and the bar.

The bartender was already busy mixing drinks, and Timmy looked longingly as an ice cold martini was poured for a voluptuous Vanessa Williams look-alike.

"Go ahead, Timmy. Get two," Donald said. He didn't drink on the clock, but it'd give him a prop to hold at least, the better to blend in.

Drinks in hand, they wandered out onto the balcony. They didn't have to pretend to admire the view. "No sign of him so far," Donald said. "We should split up, cover the room a little better."

"Mingle," Timmy said, taking a sip from his martini. "You hate mingling. This vacation hasn't been much of a rest for you, Donald. What's the phrase, 'busman's holiday'?"

"Don't start that again. It's not snowing, and I'm here with you. Best vacation ever."

Timmy leaned in to steal a kiss.

"We should get to work," Donald said reluctantly, and they wandered back inside.

Two hours later and Donald wasn't feeling so chipper. He'd endured an interminable and one-sided conversation about the problems of falling real-estate values in Miami, been cornered and groped by a sequined grandmother, and had a frighteningly pink cosmopolitan spilled all over his rental tux. Not a good night, overall. And still no sign of Osborne.

Donald was rolling the stem of a wilting hibiscus between his thumb and forefinger, idly surveying the room, when frantic movement caught his eye. It was Timmy, standing on the dais at the far end of the room, arms moving wildly. He stopped the semaphore when he saw he'd caught Donald's eye and pointed.

Donald scanned where Timmy was pointing and saw only a sleek woman in a linen dress arm-in-arm with a tanned looker wearing a tropical print cummerbund.

"What?" Donald mouthed to Timmy, raising his hands in confusion.

Timmy mouthed something that Donald couldn't quite catch, and then pointed again, the gesture a little more vigorous.

And this time Donald saw what Timmy was pointing at. Osborne, in a tailored tux, was back in one corner, nearly hidden from sight.

Donald eased closer. He kept his eyes peeled for man mountain, but the coast seemed clear so far. Maybe the bodyguard was a little too bull in a china shop for this crowd. Donald could hope anyway.

Osborne looked pretty unhappy for being the guest of honor. His face was haggard and thin compared to the society page photo that Timmy had found, and there were deep circles under his eyes.

Donald narrowed his eyes as he paused behind a concealing column. Was it grief for a dead boyfriend? Or the stress of having killed someone?

As Donald moved closer, the couple he'd been using for cover made a sudden u-turn back towards the bar, leaving him out in the open.

Before Donald could do anything, Osborne had glanced his way. His eyes caught Donald's and he looked confused for a split-second. Then he did a double take and broke for the door.

"Damn it," Donald said and took off after him. "Pardon me. Excuse me," he called out as he barreled through the crowd. Donald nearly lost Osborne among all the eveningwear, but then he caught sight of him headed for the stairs.

On the stairs, Osborne stumbled and almost fell but grabbed the railing just in time. "Mr. Osborne, I just want to talk to you," Donald yelled, but there was no break in Osborne's stride.

They crashed through another door and were outside. The night was warm and lit by the harbor lights. Their footfalls sounded loud against the quiet of the harbor, and the air was tropical and languorous, unsuited to the frantic chase.

Donald gained on his prey once they hit a concrete pier over the water. He tackled him from behind, bringing them both down hard. The fall knocked the wind out of Donald, and Osborne managed to roll them, pinning him to the concrete.

Before Donald could throw the man off, predator became prey. Osborne had pulled out a pistol from somewhere and was aiming it at Donald's chest.

"Whoa," Donald said frantically, holding his hands up. "Easy there."

"Don't hurt him!"

The shout surprised both Donald and Osborne. Osborne's aim drifted, his attention caught by Timmy's sudden appearance. Before Donald could take advantage of the distraction, however, Osborne quickly steadied his aim.

"Timmy, stay back," Donald said without taking his eyes off Osborne.

"Please don't hurt him," Timmy said, his voice shaking a little.

Osborne got to his feet, his aim not leaving Donald. He nodded down at Donald. "He attacked me. I'm defending myself."

"I just wanted to talk, but you took off running," Donald protested.

"You tried to punch out my bodyguard the other day. Of course I ran."

"Donald." Timmy sounded exasperated. "Talk first, fists later. You always have trouble with that."

"He started it," Donald said.

Osborne had taken another step back, his aim no longer quite so threatening. "You guys are together." It was a statement, not a question.

"We're investigating the death of Billy Eddison," Timmy said.

Donald glared up at Osborne, watching him carefully. "He disappeared from your boat. A hardcore swimmer who somehow managed to drown within sight of land. Doesn't that sound fishy to you, Timmy? So here's my question, Mr. Osborne. You kill him?"

A shudder wracked through Osborne, and there was no faking the profound grief that flashed across his face. His pistol was pointed only at the ground now.

"No." Osborne took in an unsteady breath. "But it is my fault."

Donald sat up slowly. "Your fault? How?"

Osborne took in a couple of deep breaths before he could speak. "We'd been arguing ever since Billy got his mobilization letter."

"You knew about that," Donald said.

Osborne nodded. "Of course. I didn't want him to go. Iraq, my god. He might get killed and I...I couldn't take that."

"You loved him," Timmy said.

"I never felt about anyone like I felt about Billy," Osborne said. He sounded surprised. "I never expected it. Thirty-some years of playing around, and _bam_, it had me by the throat."

"What happened that night?" Donald was frowning. Osborne's reactions rang true. Almost against his will, Donald found himself believing every word.

Osborne was silent for a moment. He tucked away the pistol and then rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I'd been trying to talk Billy into coming out. To his CO, I mean."

Timmy's mouth opened. "Get himself kicked out, in other words."

"'Conduct unbecoming,'" Donald said bitterly, and Osborne shot him a sharp glance.

"You sound like Billy. He wouldn't hear of it. He said he didn't like the army much, but that he didn't want to go out that way."

"But it didn't end there, did it?" Timmy had moved closer, standing over Donald. Donald leaned back, propping himself against Timmy's leg with a sigh.

Osborne shook his head. "That night at the party, we blew up at each other. I showed Billy some pictures of us together. I told him I'd already sent copies to his CO."

"Damn," Donald said, wincing a little.

Osborne gave a limp shrug. "Stupid, I know. I was lying, but Billy believed me. He was furious. Started slamming back cocktails."

"He didn't normally drink," Timmy mused. "Low tolerance."

"He came over to me at one point during the night. He said he wanted to go back to shore right then. I told him if he wanted to leave so badly, he could swim back." Osborne buried his head in his hands. "And that was the last time I ever saw him. We were fighting."

"Jesus," Donald said.

Osborne's face was wet when his eyes met Donald's. "We were maybe a mile offshore. Billy could swim that before breakfast. But not that night."

"It wasn't your fault," Donald said, making his tone gentle. "He'd had too much to drink, and he was upset. It was dark. Currents...who knows?"

"He was cocky." Timmy sounded thoughtful. "Cocky and drunk and mad as hell. A deadly combination."

*

"Billy could be so fucking stupid sometimes." Michael was shaking their martinis under Timmy's watchful eye.

Donald shrugged. "We're all stupid sometimes, I guess."

He couldn't take his eyes off the condensation beading on the shaker's metal exterior. They'd had to spin out the whole sad story again for Michael, and now Donald really, really wanted a drink.

"It was a tragic accident," Timmy said. "Osborne seemed pretty shattered by what happened."

Michael handed Donald his martini, and Donald took a cautious sip. He set the glass down for a round of applause. "Excellent. Your tutoring was entirely successful, my love," he said to Timmy.

Timmy gave a little bow. "We do what we can," he said airily. "Hey," he protested as Donald slung an arm around his neck and ruffled his hair.

"Osborne really loved Billy," Michael said in surprise. "I thought Billy was his--"

"Boy toy?" Donald said.

"Yeah."

"Not hardly," Timmy said. "He was so worried about Billy going to Iraq, he couldn't even think clearly."

"Anyway, I want to thank you guys. I gotta say I feel a little guilty," Michael said. "Wasting your time with this. Stirring up trouble."

Donald grimaced. "It wasn't a waste. You needed to know the truth, and we happened to know how to dig it up for you. And I think Osborne needed to get it off his chest to someone."

"At least with this out of the way, you guys can get on with the rest of your vacation. You have another week, right?"

Donald sighed, and Timmy cleared his throat. "Actually," Timmy said, looking rueful. "We have to leave tomorrow. My boss called this morning. She needs me back at work."

"Senator Glassman can't manage another day without her chief aide." Donald couldn't help sounding a little disgruntled. He tossed back the rest of his martini and tapped the bar. "So practice those martini-making skills, barkeep, and fix me another. We have to make the most of tonight."

Two more martinis appeared, and then Michael wandered down the bar, giving them some privacy.

Once they were alone, Timmy turned to him. "I'm sorry we had to cut the vacation short, Donald. But she really sounded desperate on the phone."

Donald waved him off. "At least it was a memorable one. We got through most of our vacation checklist, right?"

"We swam in a waterfall, got too much sun," Timmy said, smiling. "You got punched in the face again and almost shot."

Donald raised an index finger in objection. "Don't forget the fruity umbrella drinks."

"The only thing missing is sex on the beach," Timmy said with a laugh.

Timmy's smile faded and there was a long pause. Their eyes met and Timmy said, "Maybe we could--"

Donald was already running for the exit. "Race you," he said over his shoulder, and he could hear Timmy hard on his heels.


End file.
